


Family is where the bed is

by AllumetteRouge (RedRaidingHood)



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily Feels, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5900638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRaidingHood/pseuds/AllumetteRouge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bruce gets sick, his family conspires against him and keeps him in bed with cuddles, chicken soup and a bed-time story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family is where the bed is

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever beta-ed story! Let’s thank [alexicon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexicon/pseuds/Alexicon) <3

Being sick was not something that usually stopped the Batman from fighting crime. He had gone after Scarecrow without antidote to his gas, had chased Catwoman across Gotham’s rooftops with fractured ribs and had even fought Killer Croc with broken bones; but now his son dragged him up from the cave because of a negligible cold. If it hadn’t been on Alfred’s orders, he would have fought, but there was nothing Bruce could say when his oldest friend told him ‘no’ in that protective tone of voice.

Not when there was no active case but Damian’s pet project - which, in all honesty, was something Bruce had not looked into much further after he had seen his son had gotten both Jason and Selina involved. As for his day-job, he wasn’t even sure he still had that one, not after Tim had almost choked on gummy worms when Bruce mentioned rather going to work. So maybe his family conspired against him this time. And maybe, he could indulge them. Just this once. 

“You’re heavy,” Dick complained. He still pushed back the blankets before shoving Bruce on the mattress.

Alfred entered the room behind them, his eyes crinkling with mirth and a book in his hands. Bruce knew that book by heart; yellowed pages of love and adventure caged between red boards that needed to be replaced for some time now. A swashbuckling masked man who had helped Bruce learn more than just reading.

Silently, Alfred pulled out a chair, _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ loosely cradled against his chest. He waited for Dick who was making a scene out of tucking Bruce in.

When he had finally pushed the blankets up to his father’s nose, he straightened his back. “Now enjoy your bedtime story and sleep. If I see you out there tonight, Babs is gonna shut off the computers, the vehicles and even your mask, just so you know.”

Alfred chuckled lowly. “I’m sure her help won’t be required, Master Richard.”

“You sure you can make him stay in bed all night?”

“I will sit on him if necessary.”

A bright smile grew on Dick’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “Wow, can’t argue with that.”

When his son had left to make the city safer tonight, Bruce pushed his arms out from under the covers. “I am fine by myself.”

“Nonsense, Sir.” Alfred traced his finger over the book’s broken spine. It was well loved, often read in silence, but even more often read out loud when Bruce was sick. The first time, Bruce had come down with a fever, Thomas Wayne had shooed his worried wife out of the room to get some sleep, sat down at the hurting boy’s bedside with a red book in his hands and started reading. They hadn’t talked about the story ever outside that room, but when _The Mask of Zorro_ came to the theatres little more than a year later, they had gone together, enjoying their swashbuckling heroes.

“Chapter I. Paris: September, 1792,” Alfred began to read. “A surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only in name, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but savage creatures, animated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate.”

It didn’t take long for Bruce to fall asleep, dreaming of the billowing masses out on the streets this late an hour, of their depravity, and the swishing sound of a bird cutting through it; of the shining gleam of metal that were his boys keeping the faceless people of Gotham alive.

Alfred’s words made it right to his heart and even though his body hurt, he slept with a smile on his face.

 

“This is not necessary.”

“Oh, I don’t know, big guy. You fell off the bed tonight. Up until now, I thought that was Jay’s speciality, but hey, I’m not judging.” Dick crossed his legs over the blanket and lay down with his arms behind his head. “Move over or I will sit on you.”

Grumbling, Bruce reached for the book Alfred had left on the night stand last evening. “If you get blood on the sheets, you’ll have to explain it to Alfred yourself.”

Combing a hand through his hair, Dick groaned. “Why do I have to keep telling everyone, it’s just a bruise.”

“You’ve been shot at.”

“That’s what the kevlar’s for.”

Bruce looked at his son from the corner of his eyes. _It’s because it’s you that they’ve gotten,_ he wanted to say. _That’s what makes your brothers so worried. They love you and need you and so do I._ He opened the book instead, his voice rough from the cold. “But only for a moment; the next he turned to Mr. Hempseed, who was respectfully touching his forelock.”

“Oh, give me that.” Rolling on his side, Dick carefully took the book from his hands, scanning the page a moment before turning on his stomach and propping _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ against the pillows. “’Well, Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit?’” he read. “’Badly, my lord, badly.’”

The first time, Dick had gotten sick at the manor, Bruce hadn’t known what to do. He had been twelve then, still hurting from his parent’s death and the hardship that had followed. The worry Bruce had felt that night was one he never got accustomed to although he now felt it almost each night. When Dick was out there, saving people from stray bullets with a smile on his face and his heart an open book to those he loved, Bruce knew. He knew, if anything, his eldest son was more courageous than any of his childhood idols.

“’Oh! Lud love you, they are all right, my lord,’ retorted Jellyband; ‘don’t you be afraid. I wouldn’t have spoken, only I knew we were among friends,’” Dick read, doing the voices perfectly.

And Bruce smiled, shuffling under the covers so he could lie facing his son, listening to every word. Dick had always been emotive, had a temper and lived with a passion Bruce never braved to show. Even now, Dick let each character live on his face, their inner workings so clear to him he never hesitated in their tone.

Bruce’s head felt like cotton and his throat was sore, but next to him lay his son, reading _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ and proving once again that he would always be Bruce’s hero.

 

Cass joined them around noon, a bowl of soup skilfully balanced in one hand. Greeting her silently, Dick put the book aside and stood. His body moved into a set of quick stretches fluidly, not even cringing when he strained the muscles under the dark bruise on his side. It was a relief Bruce took with a grain of salt. They were all way too good at hiding their pain and he had only himself to blame for that.

His guards changed and after a few words, Bruce was alone with his daughter. “You should eat,” she said in a tone that, although fondly, told him he had no say in the matter.

As gracefully as his weak limbs allowed, he took the steaming bowl that smelled wonderful. When his stomach gurgled in response, Cass only handed him a spoon, a knowing smile on her face. Without another word, she sank in the covers, burying her face in the pillows and let him blow on the broth in peace. He recognized the taste only after the first few gulps. Alfred’s chicken soup was just as strong and good, but this wasn’t his. Once upon a time, a small boy had lived in this home with them, one that hung out way to much in the kitchen to ever have been part of Gotham’s upper crust. That boy had loved cooking and had loved trying out all the different flavours just because he now could.

With a few spoonfuls, this soup had warmed more than just Bruce’s body, and next to him, Cass smiled knowingly. She always knew, sometimes even before he himself did, and for that, he was grateful. His daughter had been robbed of a family all her life. Had never been allowed a father or mother she could mourn, and she still made herself into a loving, caring person; one that was not only capable but also willing to help. When her siblings jokingly referred to her as a goddess, they came very, very close to the truth.

Savouring the last drops of his meal, Bruce only felt grateful. He didn’t feel nauseous or hurting, only soft and warm, just like the pillows Cass helped him lay back against. He was grateful she had chosen him, that he was allowed to see the wonderful woman Cass was growing to be. That she was his daughter.

 

Bruce was lucky his stomach had settled by the time Stephanie threw open the door. She cocked her head to the side and tapped her foot, while Cass slowly unwrapped herself from the covers. “Get well soon and don’t contaminate your whole family,” she said with a malicious grin that made him regret the way he had gone about her tenure as Robin - she would never let him live that one down and she was right about that. If he had ever made a mistake choosing his partners, it was firing her.

Stephanie let Cass pass in front of her, keeping the door open a moment longer. “Seriously,” she said. “The little demon’s worried and I can only try to hug him that often without being bitten.”

A moment after the girls had left, Bruce was settling back in bed, finally alone, finally able to do something besides lazing around all day. He was awake now, having spent the whole morning listening to Dick and then having Cass bring him a healthy meal. He was up to be a productive member of society.

“Yeah, I would put that down,” Tim said the very moment Bruce had reached out for his tablet pc. The boy was standing in the door, looking as dishevelled in his tailored business suit as any teenager going to work on a skateboard would. He threw his blazer across the room carelessly before letting himself fall face-first on the bed. By now it was obvious Alfred made his children spent part or their day with him to make sure Bruce would stay put. 

“Go to sleep,” Tim mumbled into the pillows, his own exhaustion slurring the words almost as much.

“You didn’t sleep after patrol.” _Again_ , Bruce added in his mind.

A reactive jerk told him his son would flip him the bird if he had been lying in bed with any of his brothers, but as there still was some amount of respect between them, Tim only shuffled closer until he was splayed over Bruce’s chest. “The idiot got himself shot, the coffee machine broke and our investors might need to be put down for their own good. Is it illegal to shoot investors?”

Combing a hand through his son’s hair, Bruce resigned himself to staying in bed a while longer. Even half-asleep, Tim would find a way to make him stay - even if it meant lying on him. “It is.”

“Damn.”

For months, Bruce had fought his instincts, Tim’s biological father still having been alive, but just looking at the boy, he had always wished for him to be family. The adoption had been as rocky as their relationship and had ended in Tim’s emancipation but the one thing that had never changed was Tim being his son. And more than that, his partner.

“Are you sleeping?”

Bruce chuckled. “No. Are you?”

It was a well-known secret Tim would talk in his sleep. Bruce had had to stop his siblings from testing the limits of that special skill quite a few times.

“Maybe,” Tim mumbled.

“Can you get off me before you fall asleep?”

The boy moved, but only to snuggle closer. “I could.”

“Would you, please?”

“’m comfy.”

“Whatever Alfred’s paying you, I’m paying you more.”

“Yeah, you do. I get like a bazillion dollars just for sleeping in my office. Did you know I have a couch in my office? Because I do. It’s comfy.” He still smelled of shampoo and the aftershave he regularly stole from his father’s bathroom. Bruce didn’t mind. He had wanted to be productive the next few hours, but now he was trapped in bed by his son’s need for sleep. And he didn’t mind.

 

When he realized he had dozed off, Tim was already gone and another steaming bowl of soup sat on his night stand. This time, the cook himself occupied the chair next to the bed, his presence alone sending shivers down Bruce’s spine.

Jason gave him a quick glance, his eyes back on the words of Baroness Orczy. The chair was not too far from the bed, but his son had no words for him. They didn’t need words; words got them always tangled up, one too good with them, the other not good enough, so they had soup. A small bowl just like the one Cass had brought a few hours ago.

When Bruce brought the spoon to his mouth, taking the offering, Jason gave him words in return.

“’Shall I find out if your ladyship’s coach is ready?’” Jason read. “’Oh, thank you. Thank you, if you would be so kind. I fear I am but sorry company, but I am really tired and, perhaps, would be best alone.’”

He read and read, his words so unlike Dick’s, not a play, not the words of a storyteller, but a man who meant every word at first, and then just forgot Bruce was there. His father didn’t remind him.

Jason was most honest with words, loving them and using them like an artist used his paints. And for hours, Bruce listened to his son draw pictures for no one but himself, giving his father that one intimate part of him that he could bear to show - even if it meant forgetting anyone else for the time being. Even if it meant they wouldn’t talk.

When Jason joined him back in reality, his eyes no longer clouded over, he closed the book with a clap. “Gotta go out now. Taking butts and kicking names or the other way around. Depending on whose name we’re talking about.” They weren’t talking. He shrugged.

The lump in Bruce’s throat was hard to fight, and he only won when his son had almost left him again. “Thank you, Jay,” he chocked, blinking fast, unable to keep his body in check.

He had never been able to give this boy what he had needed. He had betrayed his little soul, had been unable to safe him, but he was still there. This, his son, was a fighter, a scrapper who could stand alone if needed. But once upon a time, he had let himself lean on his father, had found the courage in his heart to trust another adult.

Jason kept his hand on the handle but the door closed. He understood every word Bruce was and wasn’t saying, and still opted to reply to something his father had not even been thinking about. “Just doing my job. Someone has to save your golden boy from dying out there.” Then he turned, giving his father a look over his shoulder like the little boy who had been fascinated with everything out there. “’Night gathers, and now my watch begins’,” he started, jokingly citing an oath Bruce only knew because his son loved those books. And once upon a time, Bruce had decided to read each and every book this boy read; to learn to understand his language, his mastery of words.

 

Alfred checked up on him one last time that day, fluffing his cushions and raising an amused eyebrow at the amount of pages the bookmark had travelled through the day. “This is the last one, Sir,” he reassured Bruce upon being asked to let him out of his room. Not that he intended to stay in again. One night was bad enough, but two nights in a row were anything but good for Gotham. It was not until Alfred had left, that Bruce realised he had been outmatched by his own butler the whole time. His youngest was standing in front of the bed, his own pillow tightly clasped under an arm and a pout on his lips he had inherited from his mother. “I don’t see why this is necessary.”

“Neither do I,” Bruce sighed and raised the covers for his son.

Damian was wearing a smaller version of his own silk pyjamas, having only exchanged the top with the stitched Wayne crest with one of Dick’s shirts. The boy climbed under the covers with a frown that looked more forced than real and again, Bruce didn’t mind being forced to stay in bed. Not when it made Damian happy.

He would always regret not having met the boy sooner, not having known of his existence until his mother had already put him through vigorous training instead of a childhood. There was no doubt both of them had loved Talia at one point, but if there was anything Bruce wouldn’t forgive her for was keeping his son from him.

And Damian was his son, punching his own pillow until it felt right under his cheek.

“How was you day?”

“Brown made me show her the farm we took the cows last night.”

Bruce didn’t want to know. He had resigned to not inquiring about whatever Damian had been up to with Jason and Selina. Yet… “Cows?”

“Cows.”

They fell silent and Bruce found himself grasping for information, for any kind of words they had shared. “And school?”

Biting his cheek, Damian shifted a little closer. Only slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Todd says my teacher is dumb and I should still– Doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Bruce said, his instincts on high alert.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

His son looked so small and lost in his arms, almost crushed against his chest, as close and tight as his weakened body allowed. It took only moments for Damian to relax, to fall into silence with his face buried in his father’s shoulder. Bruce wanted to say something, wanted his son to know that he mattered, that his _feelings_ mattered and that he wasn’t alone. He wished for more books, for more time with his little boy to get to know him better, to learn what to say to make him feel alright.

Damian raised his head a little, his eyes still downcast. “Do you want me to read to you, father?”

Maybe they did not yet speak the same language, but they both worked their hardest on it. And for now, maybe they, too, could borrow someone else’s words. “It would be my pleasure.”

Damian turned, picking _The Scarlet Pimpernel_ from the night stand and pushing his back against his father’s chest firmly. He read with a clear voice, perfect pronunciation and beautifully imagined voices. He had so much potential, so full of wonder that had been suppressed for too long.

Bruce was grateful to Talia for giving him this amazing child. Bruce was grateful to Dick for showing his son love, but most of all, he was grateful to Damian himself. For trying and stubbornly never giving up. For being the intelligent young boy that would fight his very upbringing to come home; to come to the family he belonged to.

“’Does your ladyship wish for anything else?’” Damian read the maid’s line. “’No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out.’, ‘Yes, my lady. Good night, my lady.’, ‘Good-night, Louise.’” In his semi-conscious state, Bruce only heard his son chuckle. “Good night, Dad.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I may have skipped uni to write this. Yes, I may have grinned the whole time. Yes, I am interested in what you think, so feel free to comment and/or criticize, or drop me a line on [tumblr](http://allumetterouge.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading <3


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